In 1977, the United States Supreme Court handed down a decision that led to the establishment of adequate law libraries in all state and federal prisons. No one knew exactly what adequate meant, but the library at Coastal rivaled any law school’s, and every man in the joint eventually ended up with his head tucked into some case book, searching for an obscure passage, an arcane edict, any loophole they could exploit. Most cons knew more about the law than the lawyers the state had appointed to represent them—a good thing, since you usually got what you paid for.
John picked up the vase of flowers on the mantel.
Lydia stood, spine stiff as a board. “Put that down.”
He hefted the vase in his hand. Leaded crystal, heavy as a brick. Probably worth its weight in gold. That was the only thing Lydia cared about now—money: how much she could make, how much she could hold on to. Four marriages, a son, a grandson, and all she had to show for it were these cold little objects scattered around her pristine mansion.
He said, “You’ve got a nice place, Aunt Lydia.”
“Both of you. Get out of my house this instant.”
“Your house,” John repeated, sliding out the flowers, dropping them one by one on the expensive white rug. “That’s an interesting way to put it.”
“I’m going to call the police.”
“Better duck first.”
“Wha—” She was old but she moved fast when she saw John raise the vase. He threw it well over her head, but the shards of glass that shattered off the wall rained onto the couch where she had been sitting.
Lydia shrieked, “How dare you!”
The vase was probably worth more than he’d made since leaving the joint, but John didn’t give a shit about money. There were rich people all over the world who were living in their own prisons, trapped by greed, shut off from the world around them. All he wanted right now was his freedom, and he was going to do whatever it took to get it back.
He asked his sister, “How much do you think this house is worth?”
Joyce stood frozen in place, her mouth gaping open. Any conflict in her life usually consisted of heated negotiations and thinly veiled threats made across a polished conference table or martinis at the club. A veiled threat didn’t count for much at Coastal State Prison.
John guessed, “Quarter of a million dollars? Half a million?”
Joyce shook her head, too shocked to respond.
“You!” Lydia said, her voice shrill with anger. “You have exactly one minute to get out of this house before I call the police and have you arrested.”
“A million bucks?” John prodded. “Come on, Joycey. You handle real estate closings all day. You know how much a house is worth.”
Joyce shook her head like she couldn’t understand. But then she did something that surprised him. She glanced nervously around the room, took in the two-story cathedral ceiling, the large windows looking onto the graciously manicured back lawn. When she looked back at John, he could tell that she was still confused. But she trusted him. She trusted him enough to say, “Three.”
“Three million,” John echoed, incredulous. He’d thought he was rich when he cleaned out the thirty-eight hundred dollars Michael had left in the fake John’s banking account.
He said, “Divide that by twenty years, you get—what—about a hundred fifty thousand bucks a year?”
Joyce was slowly getting it. “Yeah, Johnny. That’s about right.”
“Doesn’t seem like nearly enough, does it?”
His sister’s eyes sparkled. She smiled. “No.”
“What do you think she has in the bank?” He turned back to Lydia. “Maybe I should be directing these questions to you?”
“You should be walking out of that door if you know what’s good for you.”
“What kind of car do you drive? Mercedes? BMW?” He felt like a lawyer on a television program. Maybe he could have been a lawyer. If Michael Ormewood had never entered his life, maybe John Shelley could have been a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher or a…what? What could he have been? He would never know. No one would ever know.
“John?” Joyce sounded concerned. He had gone too quiet.
His voice was not as strong when he asked Lydia, “How about that ring on your finger? What’s that worth?”
“Get out of my house.”
“You’re a lawyer,” John told her. “You’ve obviously made a very good living by suing people for everything they’ve got.” He indicated the house, her useless things.
“I want you out of here,” Lydia commanded. “I want you out of here right now.”
“I want this house,” he told her, walking around the room, wondering what would make her break. He pulled a monochromatic canvas off the wall. “I want this,” he said, dropping it to the floor as he continued his stroll. “I want that piano.”
He walked over to Joyce’s side, thinking that no matter what happened, nothing would be more valuable to him than knowing she believed in him. Michael had tried to destroy him, but he was gone now. Nothing could change the past. All they could focus on now was their future.
He asked his sister, “How many times did Mom yell at us about practicing our scales?”
“All the time.”
John trailed his hand along the keys. “She’d like this,” he said, playing a couple of notes he remembered from a million years ago. “She’d like the idea of me taking up the piano again.”
“Yeah,” Joyce agreed, a sad smile on her face. “I think she would.”
“You can stop right there,” Lydia barked.
John warned, “I think you should be careful how you talk to me.”
Lydia tucked a hand onto her hip. “You don’t have nearly the grounds you need for a criminal conviction. Even with this recent…innuendo…you have leveled against my son, you don’t have proof of anything.”
“The burden of proof is lower in a civil suit. You know that.”
“Have you any idea how many years I can hold up depositions and hearings?” She gave a crocodile grin that showed pearly white teeth. She made her voice softer, frail. “I’m an old woman. This has been a terrible shock. I have my good days and my bad…”
“I can freeze your assets,” John told her. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of bad days living in a one-room condo on Buford Highway.”
“You can’t threaten me.”
“What about the press?” he asked. “Joyce found you. I’m sure the reporters can, too. Especially if she gives them a little help.”
“I am calling the police,” Lydia warned him, walking stiffly to the phone.
“All I’m asking for is a sworn statement. Just tell them Michael framed me, that he killed Mary Alice, and you’ll never see me again.”
“I’m calling the police right now to remove you from my house.”
“How would you like a bunch of reporters camped out on your doorstep? How would you like to explain to them how you knew your son was a killer and you didn’t do anything to stop him?”
She took off one of her chunky gold earrings and put the receiver to her ear. “I knew nothing of the sort.”